


Templar Training

by w0rdinista (Niamh_St_George)



Series: Elinora Cousland [6]
Category: Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-01-18
Updated: 2010-01-18
Packaged: 2017-10-06 10:32:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,972
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/52685
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Niamh_St_George/pseuds/w0rdinista
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The first time she asked him to train her as a Templar, he'd told her "No."  Then things changed.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Templar Training

The first time Elinora asks Alistair to train her, his answer is an unequivocal negative.

He tells himself it is because he is an honorable man, and as an honorable man he must keep the Chantry's sacred secrets secret. He ignores the voice in his head that tells him having another trained in the Templar arts would be a strategic advantage against the darkspawn. He likewise ignores the softer, more insidious voice that suggests he has only rejected her request because of who she is, rather than what she is – Elinora is a Cousland first, after all, and a warrior second.

Afterward, he expects Elinora to wheedle, to complain, or perhaps even to order him to share those secrets, and he braces himself accordingly.

"Very well. I respect your decision." And with those words, Elinora retreats to her corner of the campsite, leaving Alistair far more puzzled than he ought to have been.

"Ask me again later," he finally manages. Elinora only nods and sets about to cleaning darkspawn blood from her armor.

He's not quite sure why he's said it, aside from feeling vaguely guilty for expecting her to behave a certain way. It strikes him that this makes him no better than the initiates who had spurned him so long ago. He considers what Duncan might have said on the matter, given the circumstances. They are the last two Grey Wardens in Ferelden with supplies and funds that are limited at best. Would it not be wiser to utilize their every advantage?

He promises himself – and Duncan – that he will observe Elinora in the coming days and weeks. The matter is not closed, only postponed.

In the travels and battles that follow, Alistair turns an objective eye on Elinora, watching her as she fights – watching when he is able, at any rate, since he is as frequently occupied with combatants as she. As he watches her, he notes her obvious discipline, her focus, her strategic ability, and Alistair soon begins to see glimpses of what Duncan had been able to identify immediately.

He also notices the grace with which she wields her blade, the way her body moves as she parries, the flush of exertion upon her cheeks, the she looks when dark strands escape from her ponytail and cling to the perspiration at her temple.

In time, he sees flashes of her heart.

The night they manage to save Connor's life, he finds Elinora at a far corner of their campsite, huddled in the shadows of a great tree, crying as if her heart might break. She tells him about her nephew Oren, who Howe's men had murdered in cold blood while she slept soundly across the hall. He hears raw helplessness and guilt in her voice and Alistair sits, putting one arm around her shoulders. There is nothing he can say to make this better, and so he offers what small bit of comfort he can. He pulls her closer, placing two fingers under her chin and tilting her face up to his. Dappled moonlight plays across her tear-streaked face and his heart contracts as he kisses her. It's still new and he's still uncertain, particularly after an ill-conceived encounter in Dwyn's closet. But then her lips part under his with a sigh and her fingers slide into his hair, short nails scratching lightly against his scalp – soon she is kissing him with her whole heart. It is exhilarating and maybe a little terrifying as he realizes something vital as he holds her there in the darkness: there is nothing under the Maker he can deny this woman.

Alistair begins to wonder if he ought to offer to train her, and gradually builds up his confidence to make such an offer. But a side-trip to Denerim for supplies dashes that confidence and he's left feeling like an utter fool yet again. His desire for family now seems childish and immature; as they leave Goldanna's house he feels a rush of shame for distracting Elinora with such a fool's errand. But she isn't angry with him, surprisingly enough – she is instead indignant on his behalf. It dawns on Alistair how odd it is to witness anyone angry _for_ him. She reminds him that people are frequently out for themselves; given this particular experience, he cannot help but agree. He spends the rest of the trip to Denerim turning things over in his head, remaining more or less silent until they return to camp.

She's right, he decides, and that night he approaches her to tell her so. But even as the words are coming out, Alistair is all too conscious of his heart hammering wildly in his chest, the tongue-tied euphoria that creeps into his brain whenever he's near her. He wants her, utterly and completely, and all of the cold baths in the world aren't going to change that. But he somehow manages to thank her for her advice anyway before executing a strategic retreat to the other side of the fire.

Only a few minutes later, she's coming around the fire to him and soon his heart is pounding again and he's torn between praying to the Maker for five minutes of peace or dragging her into the shadows and kissing her until their lips were swollen and their mouths bruised.

"You said I ought to ask you again, later," Elinora asks, tugging self-consciously on the end of her ponytail. "Have you given it any more thought, then? Will you train me as a Templar?"

This is not what he was expecting to hear, but he marshals his thoughts with all the mental discipline befitting a Templar. "...All right."

When her face lights up in a brilliant smile, only one thought goes through Alistair's mind.

_I am going to be struck down by so much lightning._

" Let's, ah. Go... over there," he says, nodding to a deserted corner of the camp clearing. "Best not to try this too close to Wynne."

_So very much lightning._

"Or Morrigan," Elinora replies, eyeing him meaningfully.

Alistair coughs. "…Right. Of course."

He has fought by her side long enough to know she has enough raw talent to learn – Elinora is a warrior, and whether she knows it or not, already has a rudimentary understanding of the skills one needs to become a Templar. It's just a matter of honing those skills, focusing them in the right direction, and putting them to a different purpose.

But Alistair has never actually trained anyone to be a Templar before. In truth, he isn't completely sure he _can_.

The Warden squares his shoulders and looks down at his pupil. _All right. I can do this_, he thinks. "I told you that a Templar needs to have a disciplined mind in order to use the skills that we use." How best to articulate this? He underwent years – _years_ of education and training. A brief summarization of the high points is nearly impossible. He takes a deep breath, running a hand through his already disordered hair.

"...Alistair?" Elinora ventures, looking at him curiously.

"I'm just not sure where to start," he replies, more sharply than he likes. "You're asking a lot here, you know."

"I know." She reaches up and presses her hand to his cheek; it's cool against his burning skin, and with that contact he feels something wound tight inside him begin to loosen. She smiles up at him. "I'm grateful you're willing to do this. I'll do my best, I promise."

_It's not you I'm worried about._ "Right. Let's try this again. As you probably know through your own training, warriors are taught to have complete control over each and every movement. Clearly you can't just hack away madly at something – you have to have the proper form, you have to know how much force to put behind your sword or shield."

"Know where your sword will land even before you strike," Elinora supplies, nodding. She's been well-taught – that will make this easier.

"Exactly. So in battle you have a target and you have your sword. Normally you'd gather that... that energy you draw on – your will, so to speak – and direct to your sword arm. Before you've even moved a muscle, you know precisely how you're body is going to react. Do you understand so far?"

"I think so," she says slowly. "You're talking about instant between knowing what I have to do and actually executing it, right?"

"You got it. A Templar harnesses that energy, that _will_, whatever you want to call it, and rather than channeling it into a sword or shield, it's focused inward and used."

Elinora considers this and tilts her head, looking more than a little dubious. "And that's it?"

"Hardly," he replies with a chuckle. "To start off, I'm going to teach you a low-level attack meant to cleanse the immediate area. It's a good basic defense should you find yourself surrounded by darkspawn." He pauses a beat before lowering himself to his knees in the cool, fragrant grass. "When wetting your knickers isn't a viable option, that is."

She follows suit, sitting back on her heels and resting her hands against her lap. He explains it more fully to her, the process of gathering one's strength, one's will, then focusing it and letting it build. By now Elinora has closed her eyes, and he can tell she's focusing by the way her brow is furrowed, by the way the tip of her tongue is peeking out from between her lips. He has the sudden, mad urge to kiss her again, to feel that tongue slide past his lips.

He gives himself another shake, chagrined. _Yes, I've got_ quite _the disciplined mind, don't I?_

"What's next?" she asks, her voice barely a murmur. Her eyes are still closed, and she is the picture of concentration, and still Alistair finds himself wondering what might happen if he pushed her back onto the grass and crawled over her, feeling her body beneath him, warm, lush, and inviting—

Alistair reprimands himself _again_ for letting his mind wander. "Have you got it?" he asks, willing the hoarseness from his voice, hoping she hasn't noticed. "That energy – can you feel it?"

"I... think so."

_Me too._ "Focus it inward," he says instead, forcing his thoughts away from their current, sinful – and yet incredibly colorful and intriguing – path. "I'm going to tell you what you need to say, when you think you're ready to release it," Elinora only nods, her mind entirely on the task. The words are simple – a stanza from the Canticle of Trials – and Alistair can feel the Grand Cleric's disapproving eyes boring into the back of his neck as he leans forward, bringing his mouth to her ear and whispering:

_"I shall not be left to wander the drifting roads of the Fade;  
For there is no darkness, nor death either, in the Maker's Light.   
And nothing that He has wrought shall be lost."_

The light is sudden and sharp, an uncontrolled burst that surprises both of them. Elinora's eyes fly open, the green irises illuminated from within; her cheeks are pink and her lips part as she draws in a quick, shuddering breath. She's done it. Granted, she will need to practice this skill, and far away from the mages in their party, but she's taken the first step.

And as Alistair stares at her in that one perfect moment, he understands completely why there are so few women Templars.

As quickly as it came, however, the light fades, and Elinora slouches forward, bracing her hands against the grass, trembling from the exertion. After a few moments, she looks up at him. "Did I... do it?" she asks, panting.

He clears his throat, unable and unwilling to tear his eyes away from her. "Oh, I should say so."


End file.
